We Walk Alone In The World.

But A Compassion For That Which Is Not And Cannot Be Useful And Lovely, Is Degrading And Futile.

The Mind Does Not Create What It Perceives, Any More Than The Eye Creates The Rose.

Our Statute Is A Currency Which We Stamp With Our Own Portrait.

When We Are Young, We Spend Much Time And Pains In Filling Our Note-books With All Definitions Of Religion, Love, Poetry, Politics, Art, In The Hope That, In The Course Of A Few Years, We Shall Have Condensed Into Our Encyclopaedia The Net Value Of All The Theories At Which The World Has Yet Arrived. But Year After Year Our Tables Get No Completeness, And At Last We Discover That Our Curve Is A Parabola, Whose Arcs Will Never Meet.

What Is Excellent, As God Lives, Is Permanent; Hearts Are Dust, Hearts' Loves Remain, Heart's Love Will Meet Thee Again.